


There all the honour lies.

by abaddon (nothingbutfic)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Gen or slash if you squint, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 10:53:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12505780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingbutfic/pseuds/abaddon
Summary: They were outnumbered, they were outclassed, and they were led by Harry Potter. [Could be H/D, could be gen. Warfic, AU.]





	There all the honour lies.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted between OotP and HBP: read at your AU-y peril. Thanks to Jess for the beta and Ash for the handholding.

The war was finally coming to a close. Far to the south, on Salisbury Plain, a huge army of werewolves and giants and goblins, mixed in with Death Eaters engaged the ragtag remnants of the Ministry of Magic and the Order of the Phoenix. The vast majority of Death Eaters were secure in cities across the British Isles maintaining their grip on the local populations. Once this final resistance had been mowed into the ground as it so properly deserved, the Dark Lord could turn his attention to other climes, and the prospect of continental Europe loomed close in his ambitions. For now, though, he was content to wait, expecting news from the battlefront as soon as a final victory could be assured.

Guarding him was a troupe of some of the finest and most loyal Death Eaters in existence. In truth, they were usually somewhat young, and had joined the cause upon being convinced by his resurrection as to the sheer power he had at his disposal. They were dedicated to the utmost, almost relentless in their obedience. Lesser men might say they were psychotic, compliant to his every whim, but the Dark Lord was not a lesser man, and neither, he believed, were his bodyguard.

Chief of his bodyguard was a pale, narrow slip of a man named Draco Malfoy, whose borderline insanity was apparent from the glow in his grey eyes. He had killed many Order operatives with his bare hands, and even other Death Eaters were a little wary of him. He had volunteered for the Dark Lord's guard upon receiving the Mark at the tender age of seventeen, following the outbreak of hostilities, and he had not failed his Lord yet.

He had grown up into manhood in a world that neither understood nor appreciated the quality of mercy. Racked by the frequent cruelties he had witnessed and been ordered to engage in, Draco had quickly shoved aside his childish cowardice and fear of action, learning to revel in the sheer capriciousness of his own violence and the power it gave him over others due to the fear and terror it induced. Draco made sure he would be remembered by the annals of history no matter which side won the war; but Draco could never imagine that he would be on the losing side.

Wand slung into his trousers almost insolently, as if he didn't consider any possible enemy even worth the bother, let alone a real threat, Draco made his way across the main courtyard of Hogwarts, facing the entrance to the gates. He didn't expect any resistance - intelligence had reported that the Order was throwing all its weight at the battle on Salisbury Plain - but Draco had lived long enough to be wily when it came to the value of intelligence. But despite all he had been told, and all that had been reported, there were figures approaching the main gate, wreathed in the Scottish mist of early morning.

It was hardly an army: at best, perhaps ten wizards and witches. Draco could see a mix of ages and abilities as they came closer, out of the mist, wands already drawn. Their cloaks flapped about them silently as if they were shades, or ghouls, and Draco would do his best to see that they did end up that way. All of them he recognised, whether from Death Eater intelligence or distant memories from his school days. They were outnumbered, they were outclassed, and they were led by Harry Potter.

Draco immediately suppressed the smirk that threatened to appear on his face, pulling his wand out and muttering a charm, not checking to see that it did shoot sparks high into the air. His team would soon be here, and they would protect the Dark Lord from this rag tag group of heroes. Out of the corner of his eyes he could see familiar forms, garbed and swathed in black robes, running along the open corridors to either side of the courtyard and down the stairwells, spilling onto the grass behind him just as the Boy Who Lived strode through the gates.

"Well, if it isn't the famous Harry Potter gracing us with his presence," Draco drawled, eyes narrowing as Potter gave him the formal salute that usually began a duel. He returned it, as custom and courtesy demanded - he had been brought up with immaculate manners, at least when it suited him. "I heard you were down south, taking a little tour of Stonehenge."

"Oh, I was," Potter replied offhandedly, twirling the wand in his fingers. "But I felt like taking a little trip down memory lane - and how good could any reunion be without Hogwarts, and you, Malfoy?"

"I feel honoured," Draco deadpanned, feeling his cadre of Death Eaters move into formation behind him, pairing up to tackle a resistance member when the time came. They left Harry for him, and him alone. They knew him well.

"So you should." One step forward, and Potter was no more than a few paces away, barely different from how Draco remembered him, all scraggly hair and glasses and scar and thin body. There were a few more scars, of course, due to battles Draco had heard about in passing, and longed to have been a part of, but that was immaterial. Potter was here now, and that was all that mattered. "Are we going to end this, then?"

"I do believe we are." Draco's voice was cool.

"Expelliarmus!" Potter struck first, and he was always strong, but Draco had gotten strong too, and his hate fuelled him further. Draco's hand shook and the wand slipped from his hand to tumble down next to his left foot rather than flying half way across the courtyard. Careful, ever mindful that Potter had his wand trained on him, Draco raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, ignoring the screams that rang around the courtyard as the combatants took up the battle between them.

"You're not going to kill me," Draco told the young man simply.

"Why not?" Potter asked, an eyebrow arched. "Don't think I'm some innocent, Malfoy. This is war. I've killed people and I'll do it again - to you, if you leave me no choice."

"You won't kill me," Draco told him slowly, as Potter took another step closer, and another. "Because I'm in love with you."

Potter froze, his entire being trying to come to terms with what Draco had told him, and the incontrovertible truth that rang through his body at the revelation.

Draco took the opportunity, sweeping up the wand in his left hand, and jabbed blindly upward, intoning, " _Avada Kedavra_ ," before Potter even had a chance to know what was coming. There was a slight flash of green and Potter's body hit the gravel in front of Draco's feet.

With their leader dead, the remaining rebels were easily picked off, and Draco was sure that the Dark Lord would take the news of the death of his greatest foe quite well - for no other reason than its capacity to completely tear the heart out of any remaining resistance. Giving curt orders for the bodies to be burned, Draco slid his wand back in place and turned, marching sharply up the nearest stairwell to give the news to Voldemort himself.

Halfway up the stairs, there was an immense flash of green that flooded the entire school grounds and burnt across the sky. Draco's retinas were still recovering from the shock, hazy after-images leaping across his sight, when he felt the first jolt of pain in his arm, pain so intense it sent him staggering over to the railing of the stairwell for support, sinking against it with a choked cry. Blinking away tears, he looked down and saw all the Death Eaters in the courtyard bent over, or slumped, or curled up on grass, on gravel or against the walls, suffering from the same agony he was.

Quickly undoing the buttons of his cuff with his one operative hand, Draco roughly slid the sleeve up, to watch the Dark Mark dying on his arm. The snake writhed to and fro as if in torment, spots of blood appearing on his skin as the ink and design burned itself away into nothing, leaving bright trails of red in its wake. Half-mad from the pain, Draco pushed himself up, borne by the terrible certainty of what must have happened, and staggered down the stairs to the courtyard. His signal had been one designed to withdraw virtually all forces for combat, leaving the Dark Lord guarded by only two Death Eaters. It was only meant to be used when Harry Potter had been sighted, as the Prophecy foretold that only he could kill the Dark Lord. Draco would not have used it if he hadn't sighted Potter, reassured by the fact that while Potter was busy getting himself killed he couldn't attack Voldemort, surely.

Draco made his way across the courtyard back to the body of his victim, tearing off a strip from his shirt to staunch the flow of blood from the inflamed, raw mess on the inside of his arm, and nearly roared with anger when he saw that the body he had killed was now crowned by red hair, not black, and when he pushed it over with his foot, the sightless blue eyes of Ronald Weasley gazed up at him.

What followed has been recorded many times over by the history books. The real Harry Potter and the small force of troops he commanded soon emerged from Voldemort's inner sanctum, now his grave, body-binding every Death Eater they could find along the way and placing them into custody. Shocked from the death of their Lord, they were not much of a threat. Some fought and were killed, but Draco dropped his wand in surrender and even greeted Harry with a smile as he stood over the fallen body of Harry's best friend.

Every Death Eater felt the passing of Voldemort, and every creature who had sworn allegiance as well. Tied to a reality they had never conceived of, the fight went from many. Some Death Eaters had been driven mad or fallen unconscious as a result of the link being severed, and so the ragtag remnants of the Ministry of Magic and the Order of the Phoenix were able to win the day on Salisbury Plain. By the time Harry and his team returned to the battlefield, rebellions were already in full bloom against Death Eater administrations in Newcastle, Cardiff, Edinburgh, Belfast, Galway, Liverpool, parts of London, and a dozen other cities and towns across the British Isles. 

A few months later, once civilian government had been largely re-established and what residual Death Eater attacks there were were no longer considered a major threat, the war crimes trials began. At his own trial, Draco Malfoy calmly and carefully pleaded guilty to each count of mass murder, rape, and mutilation that the prosecution put against him. Under veritaserum he was questioned - although the interrogation was limited, due to moral concerns over the use of veritaserum - and Draco managed to answer the questions to his own satisfaction. Veritaserum compelled the truth, but it did not compel how much of the truth needed to be admitted, and any prosecutors or administrative staff who remembered the pitfalls of the potion from previous regimes were fortunately for him no longer around to caution their successors. But then, the truth, now as much as ever, was his greatest weapon, and he used it to the full. 

So he told the truth and nothing but the truth, but certainly not the whole truth. Queries as to his crimes could be brushed off with a simple 'yes' or 'no', or basic details, if the question was posed in any way that demanded something verifiable. When asked of the day Voldemort was killed, Draco kept his statement short, succinct and accurate. He did not tell what brought Ronald Weasley's guard down that day, and the prosecution did not think enough to be specific. Draco allowed himself a small satisfaction at that victory, even if it meant he would die without the world being fully aware of just how cunning he could be. It was a petty satisfaction, but pettiness was all he had, and he took succour in it.

On a bleak, rainy Wednesday in March, his trial concluded and he was sentenced to capital punishment. The wizarding world was not so crass or uncivilised as to condemn a person to die by hands not their own, so that afternoon, Draco was placed in a cell, and given a cup of hemlock to drink.

A few hours later they found his body: cold, already stiff, on the stone floor of his cell.

He was smiling.


End file.
